


Always

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5848429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never listens. If he did, he wouldn't be so angry with her now. Still, Grace finds the situation has some definite advantages...</p><p>
  <i>Adult fic - over 18s only, please.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GotTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/gifts).



**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**Always**

by Joodiff

The taxi’s vanished into the night even before Grace has got the front door unlocked, but that doesn’t matter – this is a quiet residential street tucked away in a respectable North London enclave, one where petty crime is infrequent and more serious incidents are virtually unheard of. She remembers only one assault and one burglary taking place in the last fifteen or more years, both of which turned out not to be as random as they’d first appeared. No, she’s not at all worried as she opens the door and makes her way into the dark hallway beyond. It’s late – far later than she anticipated – so she takes a moment to deadlock the door behind her and to shoot the upper and lower bolts home for the night. Force of habit, and the unfortunate consequence of working alongside so many jaded police officers for so many years. Setting her handbag down and taking off her coat and scarf, she decides to go straight upstairs to bed. Boyd has called an early meeting in the morning and – given how angry with her he already is – her life most definitely won’t be worth living for several long and gruelling hours if she’s even a few minutes late arriving for it.

Ascending the stairs, most of her thoughts are centred on the convivial evening just passed. It’s good to catch up with old friends, to share news, and to trade stories of busy lives, grown-up children and professional advancement. The latter is becoming more of a rarity nowadays, as the spectre of retirement starts to loom larger and larger on the horizon for most of them, but it’s still enjoyable to hear who’s up to what, and with whom. It’s important to maintain at least a thread of an independent social life beyond work, after all, and if Boyd doesn’t recognise that…

Actually, she’s not being entirely fair to him, Grace reflects as she switches on the bathroom light and closes the door behind her. It was the timing he objected to, that was all. Then, how was she supposed to know he’d taken it into his head to book a table at a stupidly expensive West End restaurant for tonight? If he’d actually listened when she’d first told him she was planning to meet up with some very old friends then he would have known that for once she wouldn’t be available to dance to his tune the moment he impulsively snapped his fingers.

That’s just the way he is, of course. Spontaneous. Rash, even. Quick decisions often made entirely on a whim or on an inexplicable gut feeling. It’s not the way she does things; at least, not anymore. Once, maybe. Though, isn’t that part of the attraction? Doesn’t she sneakily quite admire his ability to instantly make his mind up and then act instead of getting mired in self-doubt and procrastination?

She’ll call him, she decides, finishing her bedtime ablutions. Once she’s snuggled up warm in bed, she’ll call him. This late, he’s bound to be home, though he’ll probably still be hard at work on something or other connected to the CCU. Where he finds the energy and the discipline, she doesn’t know. Has never known. Without it, though, the whole damn unit would have collapsed under the sheer weight of admin and bureaucracy long ago. It takes a very special kind of devotion to work all day on whatever detailed investigations are currently in hand, and then plough so many extra hours into the kind of boring, mundane tasks that keep everything running smoothly. A special kind of madness, too, perhaps.

Heading across the small landing towards her bedroom and switching lights off as she goes, Grace frowns as she becomes aware of a growing sense that something isn’t quite as it should be. The house is never completely dark – there’s too much external light pollution for that – but although her eyes are still adjusting to the sudden lack of harsh overhead light, the landing doesn’t seem quite dark enough, even though she can see for herself that there’s not a single light or lamp illuminated in any of the upstairs rooms. Or any of the downstairs rooms, come to that. It must be her imagination playing tricks on her. Either that, or she didn’t close the bedroom curtains earlier when she was getting ready to go out. But she knows she did.

Her heart is beating a little faster as she pushes the bedroom door fully open, but she’s not really aware of it. The curtains are indeed open, and a strange mixture of orangey-yellow street lighting and struggling moonlight is casting the room into not-quite monochrome relief, colours drained away but major details left intact. She reaches out automatically, but an unexpected voice from the corner of the room orders, “Don’t put the light on.”

She jumps. Recognising the disembodied voice isn’t enough to stop the fear-charged surge of adrenaline that immediately courses through her. She does, however, manage to contain the undignified yelp of surprise it provokes. Damn the man. She knew giving him his own front door key was a mistake she’d live to regret. Though, he doesn’t really need a key. They say poachers make good gamekeepers, and in her experience police officers make very good burglars.

She can just about see him now, deep in the shadows though he is. Lounging at his ease in the big leather armchair beside the stylish wooden chest of drawers that she’s owned for most of her adult life. Glaring, she’s about to voice a pithy opinion on his uninvited presence when he adds, “Come here.”

Her instinct is to bridle at the casual note of command in his voice. Not just on feminist principle, either. Grace is not a woman who ever responds well to being so peremptorily told what to do. By anyone. Of either gender. On this occasion, though, instinct is tempered by sudden intrigue. There’s a touch of something in his voice. A touch of need, maybe. An edge of promise that suggests he’s playing a very particular game with her. One she’d never choose, but can’t quite help going along with. Sometimes.

Tonight might be one of those times.

Slow and deliberate, she stalks towards him, every precise step designed to tell him that it’s entirely her choice to advance.

Closer now, she can see all the long lines of him; can see the way one leg is nonchalantly crossed over the other, the way his arms and wrists lie so relaxed against the worn leather of the chair. He’s been home. No doubt about that. Tee-shirt and jeans, washed-out grey over faded blue. She can’t see the colours, but she knows what they are. She just knows. Just as he knows what looks good on him.

“That’s close enough,” he tells her when she’s she a couple of feet away. Grace stops, gives him a haughty, appraising look that asks questions she knows he won’t bother to answer. In the weird orange-tinted twilight his dark eyes look even deeper, even more unfathomable, all their subtle shades and colours stolen away. He says, “Take your clothes off.”

It should sound ridiculous, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the not-quite fully-disguised steel beneath the smooth velvet of his voice.

It’s always one game or another with them. Flirtation and cruelty, anger and attraction. All kinds of contradictory things pulling them in all sorts of directions.

She’s sure she hears a sharp intake of breath from him as she reaches up to undo the first button of her dark blue blouse. The one that emphasises the true, startling colour of her eyes. The one he likes, but she didn’t wear for him. Not tonight. Maybe it’s her imagination, that sound, or just the night breeze plucking at one of the big London plane trees out in the street.

Whatever else he is or isn’t, and despite all the games he likes to play, at heart he’s a very gentle, attentive lover. It surprised her. In a double-bluff, triple-bluff sort of way. Sometimes it still does. Skilful, too. That _never_ surprised her. Not his skill, his strength, or his stamina. He’s far too vain not to be the very best he can be at everything that matters to him. And sex matters to him. Matters to her, too. More than she ever thought it would do at her – _their_ – time of life.

“Keep going,” he prompts, the calm steel still right there, only just below the surface.

His tastes are simple, but his appetite is boundless, and there’s always a restless curiosity in him that she doubts any woman could ever fully satisfy. As if he’s perpetually seeking something just out of sight, just out of reach. Something to take away the pain, to fill the void and heal all the old, deep wounds that he’s never quite stopped morbidly picking at.

Uncharacteristically confident and self-assured in the odd half-light, Grace lets her newly unfastened blouse slither to the floor, pleased by the way his eyes follow its descent then return to rake over her. She wonders what he sees when he’s lost in his own fantasies of them and everything they are to each other. Some idealised version of her that she’d never believe even if he sketched it out for her, or all the truths of age that she’s given up trying to hide from him?

“And the rest,” he tells her, sharp-eyed and hungry. She can feel it in him, that fierce male hunger, even with the deliberate distance between them. It gives her power, and that makes her smirk in triumph. He sees it, recognises it. Rises to it with a harsh, “ _Do it_. Strip for me, woman.”

Words straight from the bad script of a third-rate porn film. One of those barely legal foreign imports that turn up in sealed evidence boxes occasionally and always provoke wearily ribald and deeply cynical discussion in the squad room. But here, in the dark hours, when it’s just him and her and nothing else, they somehow work. The shivers that track up and down her spine in response are proof enough of that. Games played in private spaces, no-one to see or hear or judge. Who is there to care if they sometimes dare to say and do the kind of things that would never work under the cool scrutiny of daylight eyes and ears?

He makes things possible again. Things that Grace thought belonged to a distant and half-forgotten place and time until the unprecedented night when he seized hold of her and kissed her with a fury and passion that splintered every remaining barrier between them into so much useless matchwood. Reckless. Wild. Beautiful. Him.

Almost completely naked, she steps towards him, her attention on his intent gaze and the way it follows her. He’s silent now, his games forgotten in the face of whatever it is he sees written for him in the curves of her flesh, the look in her eyes. She slides onto and into his lap, not afraid to immediately seek his lips with hers or to slide her fingers into his thick silver hair. He reminds her a little of one of her first great loves, a quiet, studious young post-graduate who knew more about deep midnight kisses than most of his successors combined. The same intense concentration absolutely centred on her, the same ability to slowly and effortlessly set her on fire. Except her post-graduate never burned in return the way Peter Boyd does.

She draws back before he’s ready, a deliberate ploy, and he growls in discontented frustration. It’s her turn to speak, her voice husky with need and temptation. “Patience.”

A commodity he barely possesses. It’s not patience but sheer bloody-minded self-control that holds him stationary as she slips her hands under the soft stretchy fabric of his tee-shirt. The skin beneath is smooth and warm, and she finds her way easily, guided by instinct and experience, seeking the broad plateau of his chest where she splays her fingers and lets him feel just the slightest bite of her nails. She can hear his rapid breathing, feel it under her palms. It takes little encouragement to make him lift his arms so she can peel the dark material from his torso.

“Grace…” he says, but not a single word follows her name, turning it into a simple statement of… something.

She kisses his chest, dead centre between the nipples that harden under the feathering touch of her fingertips. The familiar scent of his body draws her in, casts enticing spells on her senses as the memories called forth trigger each one in turn. She shivers as his gentle fingers work their way down her spine, a delicate exploration that makes her arch into him and lift her head to share another kiss, deeper and more lingering than the first.

No more game-playing from either of them. They segue easily from kisses to caresses and back to kisses, each flurry more intense than the last, and when she looks straight into his eyes Grace knows he’s as thoroughly caught by whatever it is that inexorably draws them together as she is. Love, lust, familiarity, affection. So many things, and all of them stronger by far than the spiky antagonism that causes them to snap and spark and snarl at each other when they’re under far too much stress at work. The thought reminds her of the evening just gone, and she leans back to survey him with mock-solemnity as she inquires, “I’m forgiven, then?”

He has a formidable temper, a well-known fact, but he rarely holds grudges. In fact, Boyd usually forgives and forgets much faster and much more easily than she does, something that has always helped to shore up the sometimes shaky bond between them. The answer to her question comes as a disgruntled grumble and a sulky negative that’s very quickly followed by a line of soft kisses traced down her throat. It’s an interesting answer, Grace decides, closing her eyes for a moment as she concentrates on the distinctive and far from unpleasant sensation of his short beard prickling against incredibly sensitive skin. A contrary answer, but one she can happily live with.

She’s brought back to herself by the feel of him fumbling between them. Opening her eyes, she frowns for a moment as she tries to deduce in the low light levels exactly what it is he’s doing. She very quickly understands, her comprehension reinforced by the thin metallic sound of his belt buckle releasing. The arch look she gives him is doubtless lost in the shadows, but it doesn’t matter. The temptation to assist, to advance this interesting new development is far too great. The well-worn denim is soft under her hand. What lies beneath it is not. She can feel every masculine contour perfectly.

With a gentle squeeze as he returns his hand to her thigh, she pushes, “Not forgiven?”

His head angles back a fraction, but his voice sounds steady enough as he replies, “Not yet.”

The button presents little challenge, and the zip is as well-worn as the fabric it’s attached to; it descends easily and with very little encouragement. Keen to explore, Grace is nonetheless careful as she manoeuvres, not wanting to graze either of them on the little metal teeth that offer a much greater threat to him than to her. She closes her eyes again, shutting off one sense to heighten the others. The scent of his warm skin, musky now, the sound of his breathing, lighter and faster than it was; the lingering taste of him on her lips and in her mouth, and the feel of him… The feel of him, hard and hot in her grip, the silky feel of the soft skin beneath her fingers. Male. Potent. Alive.

She starts gently, slowly, keeping the dry friction to an absolute minimum. “Now?”

Whatever the situation, Boyd doesn’t break easily, and she knows it. Far, far too stubborn. She’s not surprised when he growls in response, the guttural noise clearly another negative. It’s just another game, one she’s happy to play. It’s every bit as exciting for her as it is for him, after all – every moment of it only increasing her fast-growing arousal. She leans forward to kiss him, not slackening her grip at all, follows the kiss with a leading, “What do I have to do to be forgiven, then?”

He looks hazy, as if he’s already half-stupefied by lust, as if he can’t think past the impish hand that alternately glides and squeezes; can’t think past the artful thumb that crests his erection, drawing itself over the sensitive tip. Grace watches, fascinated, as he tries – and fails – to summon an appropriately sly response. She can feel the tension in him, the quivering tautness of his body. It excites her even more, the knowledge of what she can do to him, this tough, tenacious, fiercely independent man. Sometimes she’s astonished by his immense self-control, by the way he can hold himself back while drawing more and more from her, but that self-control is a very fickle thing, his grip on it a lot more tenuous that it might superficially appear. Experience alone tells her that tonight is not going to be a night of lazy, protracted pleasures, one slipping easily into the next, but that doesn’t matter. Not at all.

Tiring of her teasing new game, she slows the tempo, returns to kissing him. Boyd’s hands are moving too, travelling over her skin with gentle intent, distracting her in the best possible way. Very close to his ear, she murmurs, “Bed…?”

He kisses her neck as his fingers slip between her thighs. “Why bother?”

She’s not ashamed to enjoy his touch. He’s good at what he does, somehow seeming to instinctively know how much pressure to use and where to use it. She moans without any conscious thought as one finger slips gently inside her, his thumb keeping up a steady rhythm that sends a blended shiver of pleasure through her with every stroke. A distant part of her mind wonders if any of it would feel quite as good if she wasn’t so ridiculously in love with him. The answer is unclear at best. He’s very, very good. Subtle, too, in the way he creates minute but exciting variations on the same – very satisfying – theme.

“Sit up a moment,” he tells her, the imperious note of command gone from his voice. There’s still a rasp of need there, more than a hint of something that is voracious and predatory, but there’s something else, too. Something that speaks of much, much more than simple lust. Obeying him, Grace is not at all surprised when he lifts his hips to free himself of the restrictive grasp of his jeans and the trunks beneath them, not surprised when he kicks them impatiently away instead of letting them tangle around his ankles. In the semi-moonlight his skin gleams like alabaster and Grace spares the time to look, to admire.

It’s more perfunctory now, the way they touch each other, as if they’re both looking ahead to the inevitable moment when they join, when they become something much more than just two damaged, lonely people who’ve found something extraordinary with each other. She’s more than ready for him, the low ache that radiates through her body now rather more infuriating than pleasant. It’s a ragged need, a primitive thing that has nothing to do with the world in which they live and everything to do with some primeval biological urge that transcends all the social and political conventions that dictate their normal behaviour.

 _Take me. Fuck me. Pleasure me._ An endless silent scream that even now Grace can’t bring herself to vocalise. Too many connotations. She feels it, though. Oh, yes, she feels it.

Boyd nudges her into moving, and for a moment they wrestle with the awkward mechanics imposed by the restrictive bounds of the big leather chair, but they’re used to working together to solve problems, used to following each other’s lead to reach a satisfactory conclusion. If it’s a little clumsy, a little uncoordinated, well, that just adds to the frisson of excitement. They make it work, though, the way they always somehow manage to, wherever they are, whatever they’re doing. Work, sex, recreation, it doesn’t matter – compromise and teamwork is their strength, and the fracturing of it always their downfall.

Grace bites her lower lip as she eases down onto him, taking him into her slow and sure, every single heartbeat of it savoured. His answering groan is low, barely audible, but it tells her everything about just how good it feels for him, too. Please and be pleased. That’s the way sex is for them, no matter their mood or their situation. No jarring dislocation between what they give and what they take. Perhaps it’s the combination of age and experience, or perhaps it’s just the way they naturally relate to each other, Grace doesn’t know. Or care. Eyes closed, she starts to move. An unhurried sort of undulation that feels so much better than she could ever begin to describe in mere words. She feels Boyd brace, isn’t surprised to feel him start to move in counterpoint, short strokes limited by his position beneath her. Limited, but determined nonetheless.

Slow. Controlled. Both of them. For now. Instinct-driven, yes, but thoroughly tempered with the desire to relish every moment of it, to stretch it out, to enjoy it all for what it is, not what they could force it to be. No sting of challenge, nothing to prove, just a mutual, sensual enjoyment of each other. Opening her eyes again, she finds him staring at her with a rapt intensity that is momentarily unsettling. The half-light makes a striking study of his strong features, emphasising an expression that’s fixed somewhere between greediness and awe. Unable to not smile, she asks, “Good?”

“Jesus, Grace…”

She understands. Whatever it is, the accidental, elemental chemistry between them, it’s powerful. Frighteningly so, sometimes. Tracing a finger down his cheek and across the dense stubble of his beard, she lingers for a moment on his lips, reflecting on how she’s watched him grow into his looks year upon long year. She can still see a ghost of the restive, energetic young man she met in a crowded squad room more years ago than either of them probably care to think about, but she’s watched age slowly catch up with both of them, and now it’s Boyd – Boyd who started to go grey in his forties – who’s having the last laugh as he becomes ever-more handsome and distinguished-looking. Or perhaps it’s only she who thinks so, and he thinks something very similar about her.

He shifts his hips under her, the impatient movement bringing the present back into sharp focus. Deep inside her, part of her, he can command her attention in a heartbeat and his wicked smile makes it quite clear that he’s well-aware of it. Grace starts to move again, quicker and much more determined this time, relishing the steady increase of friction as he angles beneath her to get just the right amount of purchase on the floor with his feet. Enough to buck up at her, each thrust seemingly more powerful than the last. All her senses are thoroughly engaged now, each making some kind of separate sense of the moment. The rough sound of heavy breathing, the heady scent of sex and sweat and musk, the feel of him, inside and out…

He twists his body, suddenly bringing his superior strength to bear, and though he slips free of her as they wrestle their way into a new position on the warm leather, it’s only a moment before he’s above her and able to slide into her again. Grace doesn’t know if she moans or not as he does. She thinks she does. He’s big, he’s strong, and damn, he knows what he’s doing. Always.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice hoarse, and even if she doesn’t believe it, it’s clear that he does. Unequivocally. “Christ, you’re beautiful…”

She’d give him just about anything – _anything_ – in and for moments like this. Moments that make all the clandestine shuffling between houses, all the out-of-the-way meetings and all the careful lies and deceptions seem worthwhile. Moments when she’s almost able to believe in the taunting chimera of a solid, happy relationship not kept tightly confined to the shadows for unwelcome professional reasons. She’s in the right position to kiss the soft, sensitive spot just beneath his Adam’s apple, and her reward is the way he instantly seeks her lips with his. Deep, rough kisses, hands that roam without restraint. His skin and hers, pressing here, sliding there; warm and smooth in the semi-darkness.

He moves just enough for her to hook one leg over his hip, and suddenly he’s thrusting into her much faster and harder, the tempo building rapidly, and there’s something about the slight change of position that catches Grace up in his increased fervour and takes her with him. Pressure in all the right places, maybe, or just her body’s involuntary response to the speed and power with which he’s driving into her. The cause doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she’s quivering from the growing tension in her muscles, that every deep thrust is pushing her closer and closer to the exquisite peak of pleasure that will briefly shatter her, rip all rational thought from her and eventually leave her exhausted, panting, and thoroughly sated.

She’s almost there when Boyd’s head snaps back and he bucks hard into her in a series of sharp, desperate strokes that are accompanied by a throaty noise somewhere between a growl and groan, but it’s not disappointment she feels as he comes, it’s triumph. A blazing sense of possessive satisfaction that burns right through her, and for a moment she genuinely doesn’t care whether she gets her own reward or not. She’s too lost in the kind of love that’s its own reward to care about such a base, suddenly insignificant thing.

Boyd all-but collapses onto her, his body hot and heavy, seemingly boneless for a few long seconds. She’s glad when he stirs enough to brace his forearms against the chair’s arms and take back some of his own weight.

“I love you,” she whispers into his ear, a soft, impulsive declaration. It’s never been an easy thing to say to him, and it still isn’t, no matter how true it is. Too dangerous. It’s ironic that he’s freer with the words than she is, but Grace knows he means them just as whole-heartedly. Always has done, from the very first time he said it. All or nothing, that’s the Peter Boyd way, and from the moment he made the choice to shatter the last boundaries between them there was never any doubt about the strength of his feelings for her.

He lifts his head to look down at her, a little amused, a little quizzical, and a lot dazed. She wishes the room was a little lighter so she could accurately read the look in his eyes. His reply is a breathless, “Just as well… under the circumstances.”

Not a conventional response by any means, but then he isn’t a particularly conventional man. And, truth be told, that’s just how she likes him.

Full of an overwhelming tenderness, she does her best to gather him against her, arms slipping as far round his broad back as they can. The moment of release that was so close has ebbed away, but it’s a calm, warm sense of tranquillity Grace feels, not the edgy bite of frustration. She can feel his breath against her neck, feel the bristle of his beard against her bare shoulder. Tiny, insignificant details that form a rich tapestry of things in her mind. It’s a surprise when he starts to move inside her again.

Almost indolent, she releases one arm so she can reach up to stroke her fingers through his hair. Smiling, she says, “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

Even in the gloom she can see his frown, see the way his dark brows knit together as he draws the meaning from her words and processes them. His response is near-indignant. “It matters to _me_.”

It’s more – much more – than male pride, and that’s what touches her. She’s still smiling, though, as she says, “Be careful, Peter – one day I might accidentally let slip at work just how – ”

He growls in interruption. “If the next word out of your mouth is anything like – ”

“ – sweet you can be.”

“Fuck _off_ , Grace.”

His intimidating glower just makes her chuckle. She knows him too well to be the slightest bit worried or offended by his sudden churlishness. It’s all an act. _Most_ of it is an act. He pulls away from her, separating their bodies in a single fluid motion, and she’s too distracted to realise what he’s doing until it’s far too late. He’s on his feet before she knows it, and she yelps in surprise as she finds herself being bodily scooped up out of the chair. Nor does he seem to be in any hurry to put her down again. Suspended in his arms she tries a mock-glare. It’s ineffective at best. She tries a more direct approach, “Oh, and just what do you think you’re doing?”

“If you don’t know by now…” he tells her, starting into motion.

She thinks he’s going to carry her to the bed, but she’s wrong. He takes her out of the bedroom, across the landing and into the bathroom, using his elbow to flick light switches as he goes. Blinking in the strong artificial light, she offers a deliberate smirk. “Does this mean you’ve finally forgiven me?”

He deposits her on the bathroom floor, and looks down at her with a gravity that’s most-definitely feigned. “I suppose it does, yes.”

Her bathroom is not like his. It’s neither big nor modern, and the shower that she had installed rather too many years ago is far from powerful. The surrounding cubicle isn’t large, either, and she has serious misgivings as Boyd leans past her to start the water running. He’s often over-ambitious and not as sensible as he should be. Sometimes that’s a lot of fun. Sometimes it’s the next best thing to disastrous. Still, Grace doesn’t resist as he divests her of the very last items of clothing that she’s still inexplicably wearing, nor when he nudges her forwards into the warm stream of water. She doubts he intends to remain a passive observer, and she very quickly discovers she’s right.

“Boyd, there’s really not enough room in here,” she protests, finding herself crowded up against shockingly cold ceramic tiles.

Giving her the kind of look that suggests he’s singularly unimpressed by her lack of enterprise, he retorts, “Well, how much bloody room do you need, for heaven’s sake?”

“Not as much as _you_ ,” is her prompt and pithy reply, but he doesn’t seem to be listening. His attention is clearly on other things as he takes the bar of soap from its little tray and starts to work up a thick citrus-scented lather. More suspicious than she probably should be, Grace watches him, but his intentions soon become clear as he sets to work, his hands gliding over her body in long, gentle strokes. It’s incredibly erotic, she quickly finds, the way he washes her. He’s so focused, so meticulous, and she’s suddenly glad that the space is so restricted – if her rapidly-weakening knees do actually give way, there’s nowhere for her to fall but straight into his arms. Trying not to sound as unsteady as she feels, she asks, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Mm.” Deep, low in his throat. Doesn’t divert him for even a second. A surreptitious downwards glance confirms her suspicions – age be damned, what he’s doing is having a palpable effect on him, too. There’s just no way, she decides with a hint of regret. He’s too big and the cubicle’s just too small. Still, she wouldn’t put it past him to try… and then his fingers slip between her legs and her worries disappear along with the last vestige of coherent thought.

For once, she lets sensation take over completely, and it’s a good decision. A _very_ good decision. Two fingers, then three curl inside her, somehow immediately finding that elusive spot that makes her pant and turns her legs to jelly. His other hand is on her breast, kneading gently, thumb against her nipple, and his mouth is on her neck, his lips, teeth and tongue doing all kinds of mischievous, thought-shattering things to her. Probably, she’s moaning. Hell, maybe she’s even screaming, Grace doesn’t know. The world has become a tiny, tiny place, full of endlessly splashing water, wide male shoulders that provide something reliable to hang onto, and the kind of intense pleasure that seems to go on and on and on.

She comes desperately, violently, her hips bucking of their own volition, her whole body tensing and arching as the relentless cascade – literal and figurative – continues without pause or mercy. She doesn’t know it until afterwards, but it’s only Boyd’s strength that keeps her upright as she loses herself completely in the maelstrom that shakes her, breaks her, and steals all her breath away.

Slow, very slowly, bits of the world come sliding back to her – the heat, the humidity. Him.

Boyd shakes his head as she raises hers, sending water droplets flying in all directions, and for a moment his hair stands in wild, wet spikes before the running water flattens it again. It’s his eyes, though, that draw her attention. The look she sees in them is keen, indulgent, and yes, just a little bit self-satisfied, as if he knows exactly what he’s just done both to and for her. Which he undoubtedly does. Damn him.

He kisses her with gentle finesse, dark eyes sparkling as he then draws back and echoes her earlier question, “Good?”

“No,” Grace tells him, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless. He tilts his head, waiting for the codicil. The one she deliberately deprives him of, saying instead, “Smug bastard.”

He laughs at that, just as she knew he would. Playing to his dark, contrary sense of humour never fails, not when they’re alone together and the rest of the word is a distant, abstract thing. He goes back to washing her, more efficient than sensual this time, and eventually leans past her to shut the water off. She’s fairly sure that with very little encouragement she can get him to dry her, too; get him to wrap her up in warm, fluffy towels just off the radiator and carry her back to the bedroom.

“I might go out without you more often,” she comments as he extricates himself from the cubicle, “if this is what happens when I get home.”

Dripping all over the floor – an unromantic inconvenience she chooses to ignore – he reaches for the towels, not looking at her as he replies, “Don’t push your bloody luck.”

“Why not?” she asks, stepping out after him. Smirking because she knows she’s right, she adds, “You’ll always forgive me… won’t you?”

The look Boyd gives her then is inscrutable, but his gruff reply isn’t. “Always, Grace. Always.”

_\- the end -_


End file.
